


Wide Awake and Sleeping

by pretzelduck



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Oblivious Bilbo, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 17:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6088186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pretzelduck/pseuds/pretzelduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo had been told multiple times that Thorin’s sense of direction was perfect underground.  He didn’t understand how that could possibly be true when Thorin kept accidentally ending up in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wide Awake and Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> My first work for not only this pairing but this fandom as well. Hi!
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at: http://esotericrunes.tumblr.com (I occasionally like, infrequently reblog, and rarely post multifandom and chronic illness stuff)

The theory was that the reason Thorin Oakenshield’s sense of direction was so completely terrible outside of a mountain was that his sense of direction inside of a mountain was practically perfect.  Infallible.  If either son of Fundin was given sufficient motivation (ale – lots and lots of ale), they would tell all number of stories featuring their king’s legendary underground navigation. 

Bilbo Baggins, the lone hobbit inhabitant of Erebor, called _liar, liar, pants on fire_ on such nonsense.  In his opinion, any tale about Thorin’s underground sense of direction was complete and total hogwash.  Put him in his precious mountain and he was still the dwarf that had gotten lost trying to find Bag End of all places.  Anyone who tried to tell Bilbo otherwise was going find themselves facing the pointy end of Sting.  And yes, even if that anyone was Dwalin (who, despite his humor and love of cookies, was still quite a bit larger than a gentlehobbit from the Shire and was appropriately intimidating).  However, said gentlehobbit was quite done with the whole of the situation.

If Thorin was so capable at finding his way underground, then why (oh why) couldn’t the confounded dwarf find his way to his own blasted bed at the end of the day?

It wasn’t a daily occurrence but it happened just often enough to be completely flustering.  One moment, Bilbo would be sleepily ensconced in his blankets and furs, drowsily drifting off to the land of dreams and in the next moment, he would be smothered by a furnace of a dwarf and his majestic curtain of hair.  He quickly learned that pushing Thorin off of him was physically impossible.  It wasn’t exactly surprising – see, once again, the size and strength differences between a standard dwarf and even an irate hobbit.  What was surprising was the fact that it kept happening.  One would think that after the first time (which had involved elbowing Thorin until he got up, apologized for the mistake, grabbed his discarded boots and belt, and staggered off to his own rooms), the dwarf would find some way to not mistake Bilbo’s rooms for his own.  That first time, Bilbo could have excused it for an easy enough mistake to make when exhausted.  Against his own (ignored and dismissed) objections, Bilbo’s rooms were only a few doors down from the royal quarters.  The rooms themselves were far too grand for a simple hobbit – another objection ignored.

But it kept happening.

Thorin always apologized for his mistake, which was at least proper of him, but Bilbo was at a loss as to why he kept making it.  Yavanna, his bed wasn’t even dwarf-sized.  His perfectly hobbit-sized bed was not big enough for the two of them.  It just wasn’t.  The only way they even both remotely fit was inappropriately cuddly.  And Thorin knew quite well what size his bed was.  The directionally challenged dwarf had insisted that Bilbo needed to have a bed of finer craftsmanship than could be found in the entirety of the Shire.  Bilbo had a sneaking suspicion that the King Under the Mountain had taken time away from the important tasks involved in _actually re-establishing his kingdom_ to build the bed himself.  The bits of sawdust in that hair of his had given it away.  So Thorin had no excuse whatsoever.  Just how overworked was he if Thorin regularly looked at a hobbit-sized bed occupied by a sleeping hobbit that he made for said hobbit with his own hands and decided that it must be the dwarf-sized bed actually meant for his kingly self.

The kingly self that one Bilbo Baggins was completely arse over teakettle for.

And that was honestly (and he was rational enough to be honest with himself) the source of his irritation with the whole matter.

Regular snuggle sessions with Thorin Oakenshield were quite beyond Bilbo’s ability to handle.  How on Middle Earth was he supposed to ever sleep when he found himself lying there hoping that it was one of _those_ nights?  How was he not supposed to look forward to feeling Thorin’s weight settle beside him?  Or the way, on the rarest of occasions, Thorin would lie there with his head on top of Bilbo’s heart as if he needed the reassurance that it still beat.  What was a simple hobbit of the Shire supposed to do with all these _feelings_ for a king who kept accidently cuddling with him?

Bilbo was still not quite certain as to how their friendship had survived the entire… fiasco… with the Arkenstone but he was too much of a coward to question it.  And he was definitely too much of a coward to even imply that he felt something more than (hard won and treasured) friendship for the dwarf.

It would be far, far simpler if this was some recent infatuation with the newly crowned King Under the Mountain, his majestic appearance, and regal demeanor.  That could be easily explained and gotten past.  But no.  It wasn’t that simple.  Bilbo had started falling what seemed like a lifetime ago.  He had started falling back on top of the Carrock in an embrace that had felt so _right_ that he hadn’t even dared breathe.  He had kept falling deeper and deeper with each touch and smile so that by the time the Company had reached Erebor not even dragon sickness could dislodge Thorin Oakenshield from his heart.  Because Bilbo hadn’t developed _feelings_ for a king, he had _feelings_ for a scowling and stubborn idiot of a dwarf who had, deep down, just wanted to go home.  There were few things that a hobbit understood better than a longing for _home_.

If he had wanted to salvage any part of his heart – to keep Thorin in the realm of beloved memory – Bilbo was all too well aware that he should have returned to the Shire as soon as the opportunity presented itself after the battle.  But Thorin, Fili, and Kili had still hovered between life and death and he couldn’t depart like that.  Not with uncertainty and regret.  And if he was honest with himself (again), he would forever be glad he stayed to see Fili and Kili recover to be able to play pranks once more and to speak of guilt and forgiveness with Thorin.  As the days passed, winter had arrived and taken from him the decision to return back to the Shire.  Bilbo had spent those cold, dark months watching (and helping) Erebor come back to life until it slowly began to resemble the home Thorin had spoken of in wishful murmurs as they shared a pipe and a dry spot near a campfire.  When the weather started to thaw, it had brought with it another chance to leave.  Just as he started to contemplate making arrangements, Thorin stumbled into the wrong bed once and then over and over again.  And the idea of walking away from those stolen moments, even if Thorin had no idea (and never would) what he felt…

Bilbo couldn’t do it.  He’d written a letter to the Thain and a couple of other relatives, letting them know that he wasn’t dead (surprise!).  He’d stalled for time.  To find some way to say goodbye not only to Thorin but to the friends who had become family.  He missed Bag End.  As he had said so long ago, he missed his armchair and his books.  But he _knew_ that he would miss Erebor in much the same way if he was to leave.  It was as if he was being torn in two.  So he stalled and waited and stayed.  And hoped that this was a night when Thorin’s sense of direction failed.

It was.

There was a rush of cold air as the furs were lifted that Bilbo had long since learned to brace himself for.  It never lasted for more than a few seconds as it was quickly replaced by Thorin’s warmth as he settled in next to him.  Bilbo had to force his body to stay angled away from Thorin and his breathing to remain steady.  If he suspected that he was awake, Thorin had never, ever said.  Or if he did, it apparently didn’t bother him.  Bilbo certainly wasn’t bothered by being awake for this.  The Baggins part of him was horribly displeased with how much he enjoyed something so entirely improper.  An arm draped across him and Bilbo had to bite his lower lip to keep an almost moaning sigh from escaping.  That would have been mortifying, to say the least.  He bit down harder as Thorin pulled him in until they were pressed together so closely it was if they become one.

This moment… curled up with a sleepily lost Thorin… was Bilbo’s favorite part of any day.  His breath tickled his hair as Thorin almost but not quite (never was quite close enough) nuzzled his neck.  The warmth spreading from the strong and callused hand resting on his chest seeped through his nightshirt and went straight to his heart.  This was the point when he was supposed to nudge Thorin with his elbow, tiredly inform him that he had managed to stumble into the wrong bed again, and wait for him to leave.  This moment was Bilbo’s worst part of any day.

He wanted Thorin to stay.  He wanted him to _want_ to be here.  He wanted to fall asleep just like this.

More than anything, Bilbo wanted to wake up in Thorin’s arms.

And he suddenly understood, with a fierceness that had him squeezing his eyes together in pain (no tears, not now) that he couldn’t stay.  He just couldn’t.  Eventually, he would slip up… he would make a mistake… and Thorin would know that his burglar harbored such foolish feelings for him.  And the very last thing Bilbo wanted was for Thorin to look at him with revulsion in his eyes again.  In the morning then.  In the morning, he would prepare to leave.  Their friendship would be preserved and the bed he had left behind in Bag End would have to be enough.  Empty but enough.

It was time to send Thorin on his way, though.  It was routine and it was the right thing to do.  But strands of Thorin’s hair were on his shoulder and might be for the last time.  They were breathing in sync and might not ever do so again.

Just this once.

Just this one last time.

Bilbo slowly and carefully shifted until one of his hands was just free enough that he could brush his fingers against the back of Thorin’s hand.  It would be all right if he feel asleep like this if it was only this one time.  It had to be.  As always, he was too much of a coward to pull away but tonight he didn’t have the strength to send Thorin away.  The sudden urge to say something (anything…) swept through him.  A single whisper wouldn’t wake the dwarf, would it?  Just this once, after all.

“Good night, Thorin.”

The last thing he expected was an answer.  Thorin was exhausted and was always half asleep every time Bilbo nudged him out of his bed.  But the sharp intake of breath behind him and the sudden tension in the arm holding him were obviously signs that the dwarf was anything but almost asleep.  And Bilbo had no clue what to do about that.

“I can stay?”

Thorin’s voice was soft in a way Bilbo didn’t know it was capable of being.  There was a shakiness to it – this little wobble of disbelief – that made Bilbo’s insides feel all funny.  Thorin was awake and aware and holding him.  He wasn’t apologizing for being in the wrong bed or in the wrong rooms.  He wasn’t leaving.  He wasn’t even outright asking to stay.  Instead, for reasons Bilbo’s mind couldn’t fathom, he sounded as if he couldn’t believe that Bilbo would be okay with it if he stayed.

Thorin wanted to be here.

And that made no sense.  Hadn’t Thorin just been getting lost all these times?  That was what he said each time he ended up in Bilbo’s bed and muttered apologies about losing his way.  Had he been deceived so completely by a dwarf he called friend?  What would be the reason for such a deception? Bilbo felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment.  He looked forward to a lie?  But Thorin was still here in his bed and his arm was still holding Bilbo so very close.  But now that arm was pulling away and confused or not, that wasn’t what he wanted either.  With a deep breath for courage, Bilbo snagged Thorin’s hand and tugged it back toward his own chest, entwining their fingers together as best he could.

“You are welcome… more than welcome… to stay if you want.  I mean I don’t mind… I would like it if you did… but you aren’t obligated to just because I want… not that I want… well, I do but… oh, Yavanna… Thorin.”

Bilbo hoped that one day he wouldn’t ramble when he was nervous but it was apparent that this was not that day.  The only part of it that likely made any sense to Thorin was the dwarf’s own name.  He didn’t seem to mind, though, as a deep yet light-hearted chuckle echoed close to his ear.  Bilbo adored that sound; Thorin had fought through so much to be able to finally laugh without the weight of his people’s hopes upon his shoulders.  Something in him eased and it gave him the small bit of courage that he drew on to tangle a foot around one of Thorin’s legs.  That was quite nice.  He could feel Thorin shift and for a long heartbeat.  Bilbo worried that he was going to leave – that he had pushed too much – but that fear proved to be unfounded.  Thorin’s warm breath caressed the skin beneath his ear as almost surprisingly soft lips gently brushed against _that_ spot between his neck and shoulder.

Oh.

_Oh_.

This time, a sigh that was rather like a moan did indeed escape his lips and Bilbo was quite perturbed by the layer of neediness in it.  That was entirely too forward, even considering how he and Thorin were lying at the moment (and had so many times before).

“I have not been completely honest with you, Bilbo.”

Thorin’s low, rumbling voice was even more distracting when it was so close to his ear and that definitely wasn’t fair.  What did he mean that he hadn’t been completely honest?  It wasn’t as if he could help the fact that his sense of direction sometimes failed him at the end of the day.  Unless…

“Thorin Oakenshield, are you trying to tell me that all of these times you have been getting lost on purpose?”

Bilbo knew he was right as soon as Thorin’s grumble reverberated between them.  He had been deceived, just like he thought.  But why?  He couldn’t help but squirm a bit in Thorin’s embrace as irritation washed over him.  This was more than slightly awkward.  Thorin held him fast, though, with both a squeeze of their still-joined hands and an oddly soothing hum.

“Please… don’t… I didn’t know how to… I didn’t know what to say… Bilbo.”

It was something just left disconcerting to hear _Thorin_ of all people stammering and lost for words.  Bilbo also thought it was a little sweet.  Okay, more than a little sweet, especially since the only thing that made sense was each other’s names.  Was it possible that Thorin wanted more than friendship too?  Did he have frightening and wonderful _feelings_ too?  About him?  It shouldn’t be possible.  He was only Bilbo Baggins of the Shire and Thorin was a king – the latest in a long line of kings.  But Thorin was here.  Thorin had kissed him.  A short giggle of delight bubbled up and out of him.  He felt Thorin tense at the sound and knew that he needed to quickly reassure him.

“It seems we make quite the pair, then.”

The words earned him another soft kiss and the feeling of Thorin practically melting against him.  A swirl of emotion spiraled outward from his heart and Bilbo felt a surge of happiness that was unlike anything that he had known before.  Thorin wanted to be here with him and it was fantastic and a little bit overwhelming.  Pulling their intertwined hands up to his lips, Bilbo placed a delicate kiss on the back of Thorin’s hand.  And the noise that move elicited!  If Bilbo didn’t know better, he would have sworn that Thorin purred like a housecat but not even dwarves made those sorts of sounds as far as he knew.

“I am sorry for the deception.”  The apology apparently included Thorin nuzzling him in just the way Bilbo imagined he never would.  “I wanted to have a memory of you to keep when you left.  And then I couldn’t stop.”

Thorin sounded so guilty about all of it and Bilbo hated it.  He was far more familiar with how deeply entrenched Thorin’s guilt could be than he wanted to be.  And the yearning in his voice… it matched the yearning for the dwarf Bilbo had held inside of him for so long.

“My Thorin…”

That wasn’t what he intended to say but any concerns he had about the possessiveness of it (once again, his Baggins side was screeching about proper behavior) were dashed and dispelled by the sensation of Thorin smiling against his skin.

“Does that mean that I… may I call you mine?”

Of course, there would be hesitation in those words.  Bilbo wondered which one of them held greater doubts about what had developed between them.  It would take time to work through them and if there was one thing a simple hobbit could offer a king, it was time.  Arrangements would have to be made, obviously.  As nice as Erebor was becoming, it would be a bit nicer if he had some of own belongings.  His books, certainly.  His mother’s glory box as well.  Perhaps one of the caravans from Ered Luin could be persuaded to make a detour to the Shire.  He would have to ask Thorin about that.  Later.  Much later.

“I have been yours, Thorin Oakenshield, far longer than you might think.”

Whispered words and lingering touches were exchanged as the hobbit and his dwarf drifted to sleep.  Bilbo’s last thought before letting it claim him was a wish that Thorin was still there when he woke.

He was.  On that morning and all of the ones to follow.

 

-fin-


End file.
